


Extra-Sensitive Touchy-Feely

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-26
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-13 03:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15355422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Ever wonder why Jim reacted so strongly to that question from Blair?





	Extra-Sensitive Touchy-Feely

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Elaine, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Artifact Storage Room 3](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Artifact_Storage_Room_3) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Artifact Storage Room 3’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/artifactstorageroom3/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Originally written for the 2007 Donate An Orgasm to Moonridge Anthology.

Jim slumped on the park bench morosely, looking out at the bay. He was frustrated that he hadn’t been able to make Simon understand how serious his problem was. He’d lost a suspect, for God’s sake; not just any suspect, but one that was potentially threatening to injure or kill hundreds of citizens. He couldn’t pass off his mistake at the abandoned warehouse as easily as Simon had. 

_An afternoon_ , he thought irritably. _My senses are completely out of control, all over the map, and he wants me to get it fixed in an afternoon_. 

Most of the time things were fine. But there were moments – and if he was honest with himself, they were getting to be more and more common – when things just seemed to go haywire. The other day, he’d come home to find a horrible odor permeating the loft, even though the only thing in the trash had been a couple of empty cans and the peel from the banana he’d eaten at breakfast. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours each night since coming back in from the stakeout; it seemed like suddenly he could hear every little noise, every creak, every muttered word uttered in the damn building. And then, of course, there was his vision, which had been so out of whack he’d let a suspect escape. 

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face wearily, and then sat back, tilting his face up to the sky, closing his eyes. The sun felt warm on his face, and the soft breeze off the bay gently stroked along his cheek… almost reminding him of a lover’s caress… tickling along his ear… skating tenderly along his jaw….

And, just like that, he was hard. Harder than he could remember having been for a while. Divorce tended to do that to a man. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been interested, it… it just hadn’t seemed worth the trouble. 

But now… he cleared his throat, sat up straight, tried to get himself under control… and almost came right then and there from the feel of his pants rubbing against his dick. 

He rested his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily, arousal coursing through his body. His head was pounding. It was as if he could feel each separate strand of cotton in his boxers; it felt like a million tiny tongues licking at him, rasping rough against his heated, hard skin. The way his khakis gathered in his crotch, where his legs met his torso, reminded him of hands, reaching firmly inside, pulling his legs apart. The fabric slid slickly over his knees, across his thighs; and he flexed his fingers, nearly unable to stop himself from just yanking his pants off.

He groaned and leaned forward, trying to hide his painfully obvious condition from passers-by, but it just made things worse, as the material of his t-shirt rubbed against his nipples, tightening them into hard peaks. He gasped at the sensation, which just made it worse; dimly he wondered if you could come from nipple stimulation alone. 

When he yanked his sweater off he nearly passed out, the rasp and scratch of the wool over his sensitized skin almost too much to bear, even through the cotton t-shirt. However, removing it didn’t really improve things, as now the breeze was dancing across his sweaty neck and shoulders, sending chills down his body. And every shiver sent his t-shirt – God, he’d thought this thing was soft – sliding across his chest, brushing harshly across his already tender nipples in slow, careful strokes. He felt his dick twitch, press demandingly against the confines of his pants.

He heard footsteps coming towards him, heard the slap and scrape of sneakers in a rhythmic stride. The footsteps passed him, stopped, came back at a slower rhythm. “Hey, buddy, you okay?” a male voice asked, full of concern. 

“Yeah, fine,” Jim snarled. “Just leave me alone.” God, he must look crazy or something, sitting hunched over himself, panting like a dog in summer. 

“Whatever you say, buddy,” the voice replied, the concern having been replaced with cool indifference. “Asshole,” he heard the guy mutter as he jogged away. Panic started building inside him. He had to get out of here.

His body seemed to have quieted down somewhat; he took a few, careful deep breaths and noticed that he no longer felt as if he were wearing a hair shirt. He was still hard; even harder, if such a thing were possible, than he’d been when all this started, but hopefully he could make it back to the truck, and then back to the loft. He wasn’t sure what he’d do then. The very thought of jerking off, with his skin in this sensitized state, was almost painful, certainly not pleasant. 

Taking a deep breath, he braced his hands on the bench on either side of him and stood, grabbing his sweater. The metal zipper chafed against him and he bit back a groan, suddenly dizzy. He took a step forward; the zipper pressed hard, once, against the head of his dick and then he was gone, falling into a wild blur of color, light, scent, taste, noise, a whirlpool of sensation that spun faster and faster until it flew apart in a burst of blinding white light and static. 

He came to lying on his stomach, stretched out on the grass next to the bench. Groaning, he rolled over, rubbed his hand over his eyes, pushed himself up to a sitting position.

“Hey, mister, are you all right?” A kid stood in front of him, staring at him with poorly-concealed fascination, the kind that people show when they’re driving past a really bad accident. He looked up, blinked a few times. He’d attracted a small crowd of onlookers. 

The scent of come was so strong that he blushed, sure that everyone could smell it. But then, just like that, just like all these goddamned freakish experiences, it was gone. And everything - his skin, his sense of touch, even smells and sounds, everything - seemed to have returned to normal, except for the stickiness in his pants and a hollow, dull ache in his head. 

He sighed, assured the various concerned citizens watching him that he was okay – he’d had to flash his badge a few times, promise them that he’d go see a doctor – and stood, making his way slowly to his truck. Once there, he opened the door, slid inside, activated the electronic locks, and buried his face in his hands hopelessly. 

Jesus God, what on earth was wrong with him?


End file.
